


Countertransference

by Anonymous_ID



Series: Bad!Sam [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bad Decisions, Consensual Underage Sex, Doctor/Patient, F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Manhandling, Nipples, Prom, Sex Toys, Sharing Clothes, Size Difference, Therapist Sam Winchester, Underage Sex, Voyeurism, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: This is a sequel to 'Acting In' (https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586781?view_full_work=true).  Like the first work, it involves Sam as a mental health professional who makes the moves on his unspecified-teenage sort-of patient, Dean Smith. Please read all the tags and warning; it may help to read "Acting In" first.  I know nothing about therapy or psychology, except that Sam is, of course, being utterly unprofessional.As with "Acting In," I have tagged it as rape/noncon due to the age of the participants, rather than to any explicit non-consensual actions, but you are warned!





	1. counter

**Author's Note:**

> The non-con is due more to Dean's age (unspecified teenager) than anything explicit, but Sam is still in a position of power so this is potentially TRIGGERING.
> 
> "Countertransference": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Countertransference

Sam is required to take a certain number of professional development classes each year in order to maintain his State of California social work credentials.  This, he tells his wife, is why gets home so late on Fridays. He tells Jess it’s a six-week course on working with gender-fluid adolescents, which is both a private joke and a guaranteed way to keep her from asking more.  She's simply not interested. In Jess’s worldview, Caucasian West Coast heterosexual females with high sex-drives are somehow more real than anyone else. 

Of course, Sam doesn’t meet up with Dean every week.  One Friday, Dean calls and whispers that his long-haul trucker Dad is home unexpectedly and he can’t get away.  He hangs up almost before Sam can get a word in edgewise, and Sam spends the next hour laying on the couch in his office, scrolling through twinky porn on his phone.  Another Friday, Sam finds out at the last minute that one of his colleagues is staying late for a conference call with a client filming in Dubai.  He manages to text Dean just as the kid arrives at the office building; they actually pass in the lobby, pretending not to know each other.  They don’t touch, barely glance, but it is perhaps the most sexually charged moment of Sam’s life.

That still leaves four gorgeous spring weekends that Sam starts off with Dean J-for-jailbait Smith.  And he’s not the only eager one.  Dean shows up for their second ‘appointment’ with a tube of cheap drugstore slick in his pocket.

“So, I, uh.  Brought some lube,” he says after Sam has kissed him breathless, and he’s so deliberately casual that Sam has to laugh, imagining him practicing the phrase in his mirror. 

“Not a chance,” Sam says, and then, kissing Dean’s pout, “Not yet.”

“Whyyyy?” Dean whines, sounding even younger than he is.  “I _know_ you want to!” And he corkscrews his hips, which, since he’s straddling Sam’s lap on the chaise, ends up driving his bony teen pelvis along the whole length of Sam’s thickened cock.

“Tease!” Sam growls, and wraps his big hands around Dean’s waist to keep him still.  Dean gasps and Sam lets go immediately. Jess is a loudmouth, quick to let him know what she likes or doesn’t.  He’s got to remember that Dean is still new to this. 

But then Dean smirks and swivels again. Lifts his hands behind his head so he has to grind to keep his balance, his abs clenching, his bare chest on display. Somehow he's lost his flannel and his t-shirt in the five minutes since he walked through the door. 

“Go ‘head,” he says, “I like it when you touch me.”

At that, Sam does a little more than simply touch.  He pretty much _manhandles_ Dean until the boy is facing away from him.  He’s not sure he’ll be able to resist Dean’s freckled face otherwise. Then he licks a necklace of kisses across the yoke of Dean’s shoulders and asks: “Why?”

The answer, which Sam wrings out of him between moans and pleas, is pretty much what Sam had suspected.  After all, he is an excellent listener.  Professionally trained, even. It hasn’t escaped him that what Dean had enjoyed about his illicit encounters with that neighbor,Tyler, was  actually pretty tame: being held and watching porn.  And the porn he had enjoyed was the sort where pleasure was used to push people to ecstasy.  Force, yes, but nothing violent.  Pain didn’t do anything for Dean Smith, and neither did real humiliation.  But a little flicker of shame, of seeing people persuaded to go just a little farther than they might have gone on their own? That makes Dean _wild_. And Sam’s hands on him always raise that possibility. 

Sam wrings two orgasms out of Dean that second meeting, and the first one is pretty, but the second is spectacular. Sam slicks his fingers with Dean’s own cum and gets one up Dean’s hole, jacking him firmly with his other hand, and the whole time, Dean is whimpering that he can’t _possibly_ come again, no, he’s too sensitive, he just-oh, oh, god, yes, _Saaam!_

Afterwards, Dean slumps against Sam, slippery and gasping, his hole still clenching spasmodically around Sam’s finger as the aftershocks race through him.

“Now?” He asks hopefully, still too shy to actually spell out what he really wants to say: _Will you fuck me now?_

Dean is growing, but he’s still so much smaller than Sam himself.  Sam can cradle him with one arm, especially when the kid is limp and satisfied like this. 

Sam crooks his finger.  “Push down for me, sweets. Open up.”

Dean does, his mouth opening, eyes widening, as Sam eases another finger inside.  The soft little dick lying flaccid on Dean’s belly twitches, but just barely.  Dean is panting at the stretch already, his chest rising and falling so rapidly that his perky little nipples are moving targets as Sam dips down t suckle one. 

Dean hand comes up to ruffle Sam’s hair, to hold the man’s head to his chest.  “Erogenous,” he says, sleepily.  His pronunciation has improved since Sam taught him that word.

“Mmm,” Sam suckles his approval, feels Dean go tight, despite the fingers in his ass.“One more?”

Dean shakes his head, reluctant, like he’s not sure whether to ask for what he wants or keep teasing.

“One more,” Sam says decisively.  “Just the tip. And then I want you on your knees, thanking me with that gorgeous mouth for making you feel so good.”

He can tell from the tremor of arousal that courses through Dean’s body that he’s gotten the tone just right: bossy without being degrading.  And the way Dean flinches just a little when Sam eases that last fingertip inside is just right, too.  Just a little more than he thought he could take.

Dean is _very_ grateful, if the blowjob he gives ten minutes later is anything to go by. 

Later, when it is Sam’s turn to bask in post-orgasmic satiation, when Dean is dressed in his street clothes and it is starting to get dark, Sam gives him one last instruction: “Your neighbor? Tyler?”

Dean looks up from where he’s tying his laces.  “Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to see him again.” 

Dean blinks, like it has suddenly occurred to him that challenges can be emotional as well as physical. And then he gives that heart-shattering shy smile.  “Yeah, ok.”

***

Two weeks later, when Sam stops by Castiel’s desk to fill out his timesheet, Cas remarks, “That crazy lady—the one with the kid?  She thinks you’re a genius.”

It takes Sam a second to realize which crazy lady Castiel is talking about: there are several who frequent the San Mateo Counseling Project. Plus, Cas has a tendency to give all the more colorful patients nicknames (‘the San Mateo psycho,’ ‘the Hannibal-wannabe,’ ‘that crazy lady with the kid,’) in a way that is both HIPAA-compliant and totally unprofessional.

“Ms., uh, Smith?”  Sam’s throat catches between the words.  The previous Friday had been the day his colleague had stayed late to talk some studio exec off a ledge and Sam had cancelled on Dean at the last minute.  Had Dean said something to his mother?  Had his mother finally gotten suspicious about the new, frequent trips into the city?

“Yeah, she’s called, like four times? She can’t say enough good things about how you’ve cured her son from all his evil urges,” Cas rolls his eyes.  He himself is gay as a maypole and couldn’t care who knows.  “Apparently the kid has split up with his little boyfriend.  Mom is thrilled, she’s got high hopes for prom season.”

Cas is still talking—“Be careful or you’ll be getting referrals from everyone in her Bible study group…”—but Sam isn’t really listening.  Part of it is the relief that Ms. Smith hadn’t called to tell Cas exactly what has been going on, but the other part is a creeping astonishment:  Dean has actually acted on Sam’s request.  Their connection is more than just mutual curiosity, a chance for stolen pleasure in an empty office.  It has had consequences in the real world. Beneath that sobering thought is a molten current of satisfaction: Dean is his now, his alone.

Sam brings Dean a special treat the next Friday they meet.  He waits until after he’s sucked the kid to his first nuclear-hot climax and then climbs onto him.

“Yeah, please,” Dean squeaks, breathless between the chaise longue cushion and Sam’s full-grown weight. Sam wedges his cock between Dean’s slick thighs and gently bites the rim of his ear.

“How’s Tyler?”

“Uhm…dunno?”  The neighbor certainly seems like the farthest thing from Dean’s mind as he screws his ass back against Sam’s stomach. “Haven’t seem him for…”

“Good,” Sam praises.  His hips start moving of their own volition, working against Dean like he’s fucking, and Dean says he hasn’t, not yet, but something in him clearly recognizes the rhythm because he presses his legs together and it’s tighter than a handjob.

“Want you _inside_ ,” Dean whines and he slithers his hand out from where Sam’s grasping his wrists, touches the sensitive cockhead thrusting between his thighs, teases until Sam spills all over him.   

“Well, I want you to do something for me,” Sam whispers, after he’s recovered his voice, after he’s kissed each and every bitemark he’s left on Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Here,” Sam fumbles for his work bag, a gorgeous leather satchel Jessica bought him when he graduated from Stanford., “Got you something.” Inside one pocket is another present from Jessica—or, rather, from Jessica’s significant sex-toy collection.

Dean sits up, so childishly eager it is almost possible to forget that he’s butt-naked, his sweet little cock small and soft against his belly.  Almost.  He takes the sandwich baggie Sam offers him with a quizzical expression and tips out the contents.  The toy sits in the center of his palm, an egg smaller than a chicken’s, in the pearlescent pink manufacturers seem to think is appropriate for women.

“What do I—?” Dean gasps, laughs, nearly drops it, when it starts to vibrate.   

Sam holds up his hand, revealing the remote control.  “So, speaking of inside…”

Dean’s eyes grow wide.  This is clearly _not_ something Tyler had ever told him about.

“Only if you want to,” Sam cautions.  This is not what he wants Dean to do for him.  No—this is just the icing on the cake.

“Yes!”  Dean flops down onto the chaise with haste that would be unseemly if Sam weren’t just as eager.

“Good boy,” Sam says. It’s automatic—what else can you say when you have Dean Smith tipped ass up right on your wet spot—but it makes Dean flush and hide his face in his arms.

Sam’s brought lube, too.  The good kind.  That had been a special purchase, not something pilfered from the toybox that Jess will never miss. They never use it at home, since Jess gets almost embarrassingly wet (well, she finds it embarrassing, Sam loves it).  He leaves lube-sticky fingerprints up the vulnerable backs of Dean’s thighs, slowly but surely working his way closer to Dean’s puckered little hole.  The kid _shakes_ when Sam finally rests his forefinger there.

“Shhh,”  Sam whispers and Dean  gulps, audibly. 

One finger.  Two, three, in quick succession.  Once Dean starts, he just opens right up, moaning when Sam slips his fingers out.  He tenses when he feels the egg, his hole winking.  Sam coaxes him through it, one big hand on his lower back, holding him steady.  Sam had spent a boring conference call earlier in the week making a little cats-cradle for the toy using dental floss.  He hadn't been sure Dean would be interested, but he'd had a pretty good guess and he’s always been good at knots, thanks to his upbringing.  When he finally eases Dean into his lap, there’s just a little braid of thread hanging between Dean’s firm asscheeks.

Dean reaches down, tugs at the string, gasps.  The gasp becomes  a whine when Sam manages to trigger the remote. He turns it too high at first—just because his fingers are slippery with lube.  That’s the only reason, not because he wants to feel Dean jerk and tremble against him at the sudden intensity.

Dean sags against him in relief when Sam reduces the speed.

“Good?”

Dean nods. “Uhm.”  

The toy isn’t really meant for this purpose, but Dean doesn’t know that and Sam’s guess about his pleasure spots has evidently been close enough.  Sam nudges the remote higher. Dean writhes, pulling the man’s bigger hand t rest on his belly.  Sam can’t feel anything but Dean’s trembling abs, but Dean is panting like he’s about to give birth.

“Hmm?  What’s that, sweets?” Sam can’t quite makes out Dean’s breathy words.

“Fuck!...fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Dean chants, his eyelids fluttering, green irises a slim ring around big dark pupil when he tilts his face to Sam for a kiss.

Sam reaches for Dean’s cock, but the kid yelps and pulls so hard he nearly tips off Sam’s lap.

“T- too...”

“Ok, buddy, too much, I got it.”  Sam eases the remote down.

“Don’t stop!” Dean commands.

“Nope, just getting you a li’l more comfortable…”  Sam shifts Dean so he’s propped up against the back of the chaise, with his twitching hips still squarely in Sam’s lap.   Now he can see Dean’s pretty face, his flushed cheeks and bitten lips. He folds up one of Dean’s coltish legs , touches his hole accidentally-on-purpose. 

“Do you want it out?”

Dean shakes his head. “Want…”

He blushes furiously.  Sam leans in to kiss him.  “Deeper?” he whispers, and feels Dean nod.

Sam does turn the egg off for this.  “Could feel a little. Uhm. You can play with yourself, if you want.”

Dean just looks at him, blissed out, so Sam leans in again, this time to lick Dean’s  left nipple.  The boy relaxes into it, going limp in Sam’s arms, as Sam knew he would.  Barely a hitch in the kid’s breathing as Sam slips in a finger, nudges the egg right where he wants it.

Sam sits up before he turns on the remote; he wants to _see_ Dean fall apart. It starts with a tremor in his thighs, not unlike Jess when she gets close.  But then Dean’s trim little hips start rocking.  Sam is careful not to touch Dean’s cock, but he keeps his palm on the kid’s belly, rubbing gently, keeping the vibrator right where he wants it.  Dean himself has one hand tugging at his tit, spit-wet from Sam’s mouth, and the other gripping the frame of the chaise, like he’ll fly right off if he’s not holding on.  Maybe he will, given the supple, athletic way his pelvis is grinding against Sam’s rock-hard dick.

It’s not long before Dean starts making the sweet, desperate sounds that Sam is getting to know.  The ones that mean he’s on the brink, but can’t quite let himself go.  Sam tries to imagine Dean holding back, not wanting to let Tyler’s mom know what they were up to.  Not wanting to let Tyler know how much he enjoyed it. Not letting _himself_ know how much he enjoyed it.

Well, the hell with that!  Sam presses down harder on Dean’s stomach, holding the egg in place despite the kid’s rocking body.  Dean comes for what must be three solid minutes, first shooting jets of cum all over himself and Sam, then shaking, dripping, twitching until Sam turns off the remote and gathers him up. 

Dean clings like a limpet, slick and wet, winding his arm and legs tightly around Sam.    Sam pulls at the egg’s string and Deam squirms.  “C’mon,” Sam says.  He suspects Dean’s about to crash, and it’ll be easier to get this out before he does.

He gives gentle, rhythmic tugs, whispering sweet nothings—how beautiful he’d looked, how good.  And Dean shivers and stretches and finally sobs as the egg slips out. 

Sam holds him until the sobs become muffled sniffles

“I’m sorry,” Dean snuffles, tucking his tear-stained face into Sam’s shoulder.

“Nothing to be sorry about. You were gorgeous.”

“I liked it, really!  It was just…”

“A lot?” asks Sam.

“I was ready!” Dean sound defensive.

Sam strokes his bare back, soothing.  “I know, I know, you were so good for me, sweetheart.”

“But you didn’t even get to—”

Sam chuckles, loves the way Dean curls into the sound. “Oh, I came, babe.  You were a little too out of it to notice. But I definitely came and I bet…” he bucks Dean’s ass with his cock, half-hard from feeling Dean struggle with that egg. “I bet I could come again.  If…”

Dean turns to look at him, wary but hopeful.  “If?”

Sam calculates quickly.  Dean’s too fragile to be fucked today.  He may be too fragile to even have any part of his anatomy referred to as tits.  Sam settles for: “Nurse me?” and gets one of Dean’s pretty blushes and a mouthful of teen boytit while he jerks off slow and leisurely.

After, when they’re all dressed (Dean’s chest so sensitive that he winces donning his worn t-shirt), Sam kisses him goodnight.  Then he issues his challenge.  “I want you to do something for me.”

“Ok,” Dean says—doesn’t even bother to ask what.

“I want you to ask a girl to the prom.”


	2. transference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and his prom date--stage managed by Sam

Dean’s prom date is tall and blonde and she knows what she wants.  She’s got her tongue halfway down Dean’s throat before they’re even properly into Sam’s office and no sooner does Dean close the door than she’s trying to peel off his tuxedo jacket.  Sam can see it all from inside the tech closet: he’d spun a story to his wife about having to go back for a work emergency and picked the flimsy lock on the louvered door in his office.  Now he’s crouched next to a stack of noisy servers and a blinking router box with a perfect view of Dean frenching his date. 

Sam can’t remember her name—Jane?  Joanna?—only that she’s a family friend.  Dean had shared that much when he’d called to say he’d asked a girl to the dance.  They don’t talk on the phone much, as a rule, but this was worth breaking rules.  “Her dad knows my dad,” Dean had explained, his voice so low that Sam had known he was calling from home, trying not to be overheard.  “My mom’s thrilled,” he’d said, and Sam had practically heard the teenaged eye-roll. 

“Already planning the wedding, huh?” Sam had asked, nodding to one of the secretaries who stopped in with the day’s mail.  He didn’t drop his voice at all: for all anyone knew, he was on the phone with a client.

Dean had snorted.  “Yeah. She says it’s all thanks to you.”

“Well,” Sam let his voice drop an octave.  “Isn’t it?” 

For a moment, there is only silence on the phone line, just Dean’s breaths speeding up.  He knows—they both know—that if Sam hadn’t challenged him to ask a girl to the prom, Dean would have skipped the entire thing.  He would have been too shy to ask that neighborhood boy he’d been fooling around with, and too stubborn to ask a girl just to please his mother.  But that stubbornness hadn’t been a problem for Sam.  No, Dean _likes_ it when Sam challenges him.  And Sam likes when Dean does what he asks.

“The after-party is right down the street, right?”  Sam had asked at last, because just sitting in his office hearing Dean’s ragged breathing was making him hard. “You should bring her here, after. I’ll send you the door code.”  It wasn’t a suggestion.  It was another challenge.

So that’s how Dean and the girl had ended up in Sam’s dark office, four blocks away from the hotel where all the other high schoolers are celebrating at the PTA-sponsored party.

The rest of the office is empty and quiet, so Sam can hear them perfectly: Dean always likes his kisses deep and wet.

“Wait…so, how do you know this guy again?”  the girl breaks the kiss, a little breathless and a lot suspicious.  She slithers out from between Dean and the wall, walks over to the large windows.  There’s a moment where she is less than five feet from Sam’s hiding place, where he can see the blonde strands escaping from her _Seventeen_ magazine updo and smell her fruity perfume.  Her dress is a deep purple, one spaghetti strap already slipping off her shoulder thanks to Dean’s amorous pawing. 

“He’s a friend.”  Dean says, following her.  And then, catching her skeptical look—Jane-Joanna is no dummy—he adds, “My mom knows him.”  Which is, strictly speaking, true. 

The girl peeks through the slats of the window blinds.  “Jesus, this view is worth, like, a million dollars.”  For a split second, Sam thinks she’s going to sit on the chaise, the one where he’s done everything except actually fuck her date, but then she walks over to lean against Sam’s desk and undo her sandal. “Uggh, these shoes are crazy…” 

Dean hesitates, but just for a second.  “Lemme help, Jo.” Sam smiles in the dark: _attaboy_.

Jo hikes herself up to sit on the desk.  Take her out of the purple gown and those Payless heels and Sam would bet she’s a tomboy.  Dean sits down in the chair that faces the desk, the one that Sam keeps for clients and the one that he is never, ever going to be able to look at in the same way again.  Because, unsurprisingly, ‘helping’ Jo with her shoes ends up with Dean giving her a foot massage, which ends up with his hands curled around her calves, a kiss on the inside of one knee.  There’s a silken rustling—Jo spreading herself wider, Dean’s hands moving under her skirt.  Jo reaches down to guide him. They are staring at each other, Jo looking down at Dean in the half-lit office, and Sam can tell when Dean finally touches her where she wants him to because she gasps and bites her lip.

Sam wonders if the kid can hear his heart beating in the dark of the tech closet. Because when he thought Dean was going to have his little girlfriend on the chaise, his cock had nearly exploded…and now that it looks like they’re going to do it on Sam’s actual fucking _desk_.

And then...Dean stops.

Sam had been teasing his own cock, just outside his clothes, and watching as Dean had kissed his way up Jo’s thigh.  Jo herself had been propped up with her hands on the desk and one bare foot on Dean’s shoulder, her head tipped back.  Now she straightens up. 

“Dean?”

“Are you—uhm.  Jo, do you really wanna…?”

“Yes!”  Jo sounds like she’s short on patience.  Sam remembers Dean saying her mother was a little protective.  It’s probably been awhile, and he can’t imagine that someone who looks like Jo is used to having to wait.  But she sits up and then leans down to kiss Dean.  She must have seen some apprehension in his face, because she begins again, gentler.  “Look, we don’t _have_ to, if you don’t want to.  We can just go back to the party.  But if you do…” She kisses him again, deeper, and Sam can see Dean’s shoulders relax as he gives himself up to it.  Jo senses that she’s won.  She mumbles something (“half an hour?”) and shoves Dean’s suit jacket further off his shoulders.  Her fingernails—painted to match her dress—look startling against his white shirt.

Sam stifles a snort—of course, they have a curfew, and of course, of all the girls in the world, Dean would choose one who manages to be both impatient and a rule-follower.  He does wish Jo would be a little more careful with the suit: the cost was outrageous off the rack and then Sam had insisted that it be tailored to highlight Deans broadening shoulders and slim hips. 

They’d gone to a boutique, made a show of pretending that Dean was an intern who had violated the firm’s dress code once too often. 

“If you can’t figure out what is appropriate for a business meeting on your own…”  Sam had huffed impatiently, playing the part of a junior partner sent out to monitor the interns. Dean had looked so abashed that Sam had felt bad for a moment.  But just a moment: this is also the boy who’d convinced his own mother he wanted to take the girl next door to prom. Sam’s surprised by the hot flush of pure jealousy he feels when one of the tailors had traced the line of the inseam.  Sure, the tailor had looked like someone’s Russian grandma; true, she’d been doing nothing sexier than making cryptic marks with chalk on the dark broadcloth.  But Sam had still felt a surge of protectiveness, of possessiveness.

The little Russian lady hadn’t stayed in the dressing room long; she hustles out with her chalk and her measurements.  (“Yeah,” Dean had huffed later, sprawled on the chaise in this very office, freshly sucked-off, “cause you looked like you wanted to _bite_ her every time she touched me!”).  And the moment she left, Dean had started to tease. He was standing on a box, in clothes he didn’t own, most of it held together with dressmaker’s pins, so there wasn’t much he could do, especially since there was only a thin curtain separating the dressing room from the rest of the store.  But Dean is inventive.  Gingerly, to avoid dislodging any pins, he had reached up and opened the collar button on his dress shirt—the one Sam keeps in his desk drawer for emergencies and had pulled out to support their ‘badly-dressed-intern’ charade.  One button.  Sam had zeroed in on the way Dean’s Adam’s apple jumped when he swallowed and undid another button.  A flash of Dean’s tanned skin, the curve of his collarbone. Another button.  Four buttons altogether.  Just enough for Dean to run two fingertips around the tender circles on his chest.

Dean’s nipples are _special_.  Not just because they’re perfect—Dean’s a pretty impressive physical specimen all over: every inch is perfect.  And not just because they are exquisitely sensitive—though they are, seemingly connected straight to his cock by way of his overcharged teen libido.  But because they are perfectly sensitive _for Sam_.  Before Sam, no one had ever paid much attention to them…not Dean himself; not that neighborhood kid, Tyler; not the girls Dean had fumbled around with, trying to decide what he liked.  This is something that Sam has given him, and what he’s gotten in return is the opportunity to watch a half-dressed Dean tease himself semi-hard by petting his own chest in a dressing room.    

The boy had been flushed and panting, peeking at Sam from under lids half-closed with pleasure, when a sales-clerk had called, “Gentlemen?”  a mere five seconds before barreling into the dressing room with boxes and tissue paper and the hemmed trousers. Sam had to jump into a tirade about the dress code so Dean could shrink and duck his reddened face.

Now the trousers of that expensive suit are thrown over the guest chair in Sam’s office and Dean is fumbling for matching jacket, for the condoms Sam had tucked inside the inside pocket.

(“You said, ‘ask a girl to prom,’” Dean had looked doubtful when he’d seen Sam slip the foil pouches into his pocket. He’d stopped by a week ago, late, to show off the suit in Sam’s office—a fashion show that became a strip tease. “You didn’t say you wanted me to…” he’d trailed off. 

“Shh,”  Sam had kissed his skeptical pout.  “I don’t _want_ you to do anything.  But if _you_ want to…”  He’d turned his hands and pressed them against Dean’s chest, cupping his pecs through the fabric of his dress shirt. )

Sam had let Dean keep the spare shirt since they could hardly dawdle in that dressing room. So Dean is wearing _Sam’s shirt_ when he finally fucks his prom date.  That’s the shirt she’s wrinkling with her lavender nails as he slides into her. Sam can see her face over Deans shoulder, a flicker of a wince when he enters, then she bites her lip, buries her face against his neck. Sam tries to imagine what she’s feeling.  He’s always thought of Dean as small—just a kid. (“Everyone’s small compared to you, Gigantor,” he hears Jess say in his head. Not that she’s ever complained).    But Dean's not so little: from this angle, the girl virtually disappears under him.  Only her legs are visible, knees hitched around Dean’s hips, the sculpted globes of his ass pumping into her. He’s a little bow-legged, which just makes his stance more powerful. He’s eager and rough with it: from the secrecy of the tech closet, Sam can hear the desk solid desk squeak under his thrusts.  He wants to slip into the office, sidle up behind Dean, cup those delicious ass cheeks, show him how it’s done, slow his hips and deepen his thrusts, remind him it’s not a race, curfew be damned. He nearly snorts, imagining the look on Jo’s face if he were to suddenly appear behind Dean.   But maybe he’s underestimating her: Jo seems to be taking as good as she’s getting.   She’s lost one of those strappy sandals, but her bare foot is thrown over Dean’s hip.  She’s still splayed across Sam’s desk, but she’s got her hands around Dean’s waist, pulling him into her, rucking up Sam’s shirt to touch his skin.  Sam sees Dean toss his head and knows the motion: he’s getting close, wants to hold on a little longer. 

“Shhh,” Jo hisses, when Dean grunts, but her own voice is getting high.  Dean shifts her on the desk, pulling her whole body to the side and Sam now has such a beautiful view—Dean _plowing_ his prom date in the half-light—that he’d suspect the kid of arranging the scenario just for him…if he couldn’t tell from the urgency in Dean’s thrusts that he’s barely holding on. Sam’s the farthest thing from his mind right now.

The girl, Jo, starts to whimper.  She bites her hand, unable to stop the noise Dean is fucking out of her, too far gone to be mortified. Sam is jacking himself hard now, firm grip, strokes timed with Dean’s. There’s no way either of them are going to overhear him—hell, they wouldn’t notice if he entered the goddamn room.  Again, Sam is tempted to open the door.  He’s not important enough to have a large office; three steps and he could be at the desk.  He’d slap Dean’s delicious ass and show him how to touch the girl so he could feel her orgasm around him.

Pressed up against the louvers, Sam can see Jo isn’t waiting.  She’s got one arm flung around Dean’s shoulder, but the other hand is lost in the froth of purple.  Touching herself.  Dean can’t, because he’s gripping the desk on either side of her.  With each thrust, he makes a coarse grunt that Sam has never heard from him before.  Jo tries to shush him, pushing herself up to quiet him with kisses.  But then Dean does something that surprises all three of them: when Jo’s shifting pulls the strap of her dress off her shoulder, Dean leans in and mouths her breast.  Sam barely catches a glimpse of nipple, a flash of surprise on Jo’s face—she and Dean haven’t played like _this_ before.  Then Jo is cumming, cursing.  Dean is right behind her: Sam recognizes the way his body flexes and surrenders, knows it well.

They giggle about it afterwards, shy and proud of themselves.  Alternately kissing and shushing each other. Dean has just started easing his kisses down her throat, heading for her tits again, when there is a mechanical whirring.  At first, Sam can barely hear it over the cooling fans in the tech closet, but the Jo sits up and bats Dean's hand off her breast.

"That's my phone.  Where's my phone?" Jo sounds panicked.  "Dean--where's my...?  If that's my Mom, she's gonna kill me.  What time is--oh, oh, here it is!" Jo finds her silky little handbag while Dean is still trying to button his trousers.  Sam sees her eyes go wide.  "Dean,"she hisses.  "It's the Uber!"

"What? We told him thirty minutes..." Dean's voice trails off as he checks his watch and realizes how time flies when you're fucking your teen girlfriend on prom night.

"My mom is gonna—" Jo starts.

"Go catch it."

"What?!"

"Go on!  I'll clean up here."  Dean glances around the room. The open blinds, the shifted furniture.   "It won't take long and my parents gave me money."

Jo looks sorely tempted, but..."No.  No, I can't just leave you here."

Trust Dean to pick the honorable girl!

Dean walks over to her, kisses her sweetly. "Jo, I know your mom.  First she'll kill you, and then she'll come after me!"  He gives her the dimpled smile that even Sam finds hard to resist.  "Go catch that car!"

"Are you—"

"Yes!  Yes, I'm sure.  I'll clean up here, grab a cab.  Or head back to the hotel and meet up with the guys."  Dean smiles at her again.  "You can make it up to me."

The phone buzzes again and Jo hesitates.  Then she kisses Dean, grabs her shoes, and dashes out into the hallway.  Sam hears the elevator doors open, close, rattle as it descends through the empty building.

The office feels cool after the overheated tech closet, and when Sam open the louvered door he'd swear the room smells like sex and Jo's fruit salad perfume.  Dean is on the chaise, still half-dressed, looking out at the night sky.  He doesn't even move until Sam kneels down and kisses thr spot behind his ear that always makes him shiver.

"Thought you'd be watching," Dean saws quietly.  He doesn't sound angry or upset.  Just a little...subdued.  Uncertain. Sam's tall enough that he can reach right over the back of the chaise and gather Dean into a hug. 

"Couldn't keep my eyes off it.  You were so beautiful," Sam nuzzles another kiss, lets his hand cup Dean's tit through the dress shirt.  He plays with the nipple he finds hardening there.  Dean shifts. Is he thinking of Jo?  Or is the opposite true: maybe when he'd put his mouth on Jo, he'd been thinking of Sam. "Treated her so good."  Sam can afford to be generous.  After all, he's the one who will be getting Dean's virginity on prom night.

 


End file.
